


MINE Or: When Greg Lestrade Met Jealous Mycroft Holmes

by LadyGlinda



Series: Jealous, Possessive Mycroft [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Difficult Relationship, Established Relationship, Jealous Mycroft, Kidnapping, M/M, Mycroft has a big dick, Mycroft's Meddling, Possessive Mycroft, Pre-Canon, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Sherlock is a Size Queen, Sibling Incest, Top Mycroft Holmes, holmescest, not really dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 13:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20892518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Greg Lestrade had just started working with Sherlock, the consulting detective, when he was brought to meet a man who was eager to make a point.





	MINE Or: When Greg Lestrade Met Jealous Mycroft Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts), [Snoozydog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/gifts).

This was intolerable! He was a detective inspector! Of New Scotland Yard! Nobody could just come and bloody kidnap him! Putting a bag or whatever it had been over his head and pushing him into a car! And where was he even?! An abandoned warehouse? Who was behind this? This was just outrageous!

This was _scary_…

Greg Lestrade swallowed, looking around, but in the darkness there was not much to see but some shabby old remains of furniture, and he smelled nothing but dust and decay. He had been divested of his gun by deft hands before he had been thrown into the car. Nobody had answered his questions, actually nobody had even said a word on the ride here, wherever ‘here’ actually was; he estimated that they had been driving for about twenty minutes, probably East. Then he had been pulled outside rather roughly and had been guided to the building and pushed inside this large room. A single intact chair was standing in the middle of basically nothing. He was obviously supposed to sit down but for what?!

“Good afternoon, Inspector Lestrade.”

Greg whirled around. A man was approaching him. He was tall and slim, with dark hair that was curling on his forehead. For whatever reason one of his glove-covered hands was carrying a long umbrella even though it hadn't been raining a drop for a change today. When he came closer, Greg saw that he had handsome features with big bright eyes, a long nose and a dimple in his chin. Greg could smell an expensive eau de cologne when the man had reached him.

“Sit down, Inspector. Sorry for the inconvenience of asking you to come here.”

“_Asking_ me?!” Greg flared, strangely soothed by the soft, sophisticated voice with the upper class accent, and perhaps even by the umbrella. The man was wearing a black suit and Greg couldn’t see any outlining of a gun but he could be mistaken about that.

An ironic smile graced the man’s well-shaped lips. “Perhaps you were asked a little rudely, apologies for that.”

He wasn’t really apologising of course. This man was the personalised politeness but Greg didn't fall for this – under this insincere smile he could sense steel and coldness. And this was not some burglar or petty criminal – all about him screamed ‘power’ and ‘wealth’. A rich man in a position of influence who was used to being obeyed. And he didn't exactly appear like a crime lord. In fact he was probably usually seated behind a desk at a famous address and served by a few assistants. The same assistants that had brought Greg here.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Greg settled for. He had cases to solve. He had a wife that would be worried if he didn't come home in time. He had other things to do that hanging around in a dark building, being a toy for some crazy-arse Government worker because that was exactly what this man had to be.

The taller man smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. They were blue, Greg could see now, his own eyes having got used to the darkness. “Straight to the point. Admirable behaviour for a man who serves the public.”

“So do you, don’t you? Whitehall?”

The man whistled and it sounded condescending to say the least. “Bright boy! Indeed. What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” he asked then, his head darting forward as if he was a viper.

Greg furrowed his brow. This was about _Sherlock_? But he should have known, actually. What else was new in his life but the young man with the wild eyes, the razor sharp tongue and brain, the nervous manners and the preference for hard drugs? “What is yours?” he shot back. But was this really a necessary question? Obviously the man was related to Sherlock, who had told him rather impatiently just a day ago that he didn't have any friends. He seemed to be quite a bit older than the detective but way too young to be his father, and an uncle seemed unlikely.

“I’m Sherlock’s older brother,” the man calmly answered, confirming his suspicion (or should he be bold enough to say 'deduction'? Wouldn’t Sherlock be proud of his conclusions?). “So I’m asking you again – what is your connection to him?”

“I… Listen… I have no idea what you want from me or what Sherlock told you about me...”

For a moment a flicker of a genuine emotion graced the attractive face. Sadness? Resignation? It was over before Greg could decide. “He didn't tell me anything. He rarely ever does. If I want to find out what he is up to, I have to make use of other sources. My camera feeds have been showing me that you have been working with him on five occasions now but his name doesn’t appear in any police report. How come?”

Greg’s brain was whirling. Camera feeds? Police reports? What was this – big brother? Well, yes, quite literally but still… Government resources were used very responsibly, obviously… And somehow he began to realise that this man wasn't only powerful. He was obsessed with Sherlock and he didn’t like that his little brother was working with him. “It’s not official,” he rasped out in the end. “He helps me solving crimes but he doesn’t do it for the fame or for money. He seems to get something else out of it.” He would never forget this first day when this unique-looking man, high as a kite, had stumbled onto a crime scene, deducing the crime and him as well as his colleagues to shreds. He had been right with everything he had said. Impressive, admirable, but boy was Sherlock rude… It seemed to run in the family even though his brother left the rudeness to his minions and hid his own behind the thin surface of politeness.

Sherlock’s brother sighed. “Ah, I know that. He’s just bored, the poor boy. Well, solving crimes is definitely better than getting high on chemical substances, isn’t it?”

Greg nodded. “I do believe so.” And then he made a strangled noise and his eyes were bulging when the man’s large right hand was suddenly firmly located around his throat, and he looked, panicking, into those previously so cold blue eyes that suddenly sparkled with raging fury and perhaps even a hint of insanity.

Gone were the calmness and smoothness of his voice when he hissed, “Do you fancy him? Do you dream of grabbing his glorious arse and pushing inside of him?”

“No!” Greg croaked. “I’m married!” He pawed at the man's arms but he didn't even flinch.

“Please,” the older Holmes brother spat out. “With a woman who sleeps around with half of London!”

Greg wanted to protest but he felt every bit of blood leaving his brain. If the man – and God he was so much stronger than he looked – didn't let go this instant, he would _die_.

And then he was released from the iron grip of these impossibly strong fingers in the black leather gloves and dropped to the dirty floor, coughing and knowing he wouldn’t be able to talk in a normal way for days on end.

“You are lucky,” Mr Holmes stated. “You are useful as the work you are giving my brother keeps him from doing even more stupid stuff. Continue this by all means; I am sure it will be to everybody's benefit. My brother is very smart and his advice will be helpful to your career without a doubt. But nonetheless – if I had seen any desire for my brother in your face, now or on the video material, or heard anything fishy in your phone calls with him, you would be dead now. And I’m warning you – keep your hands off of him or the next time you won’t even see me coming before all lights go out.”

Greg, whose brain still lacked oxygen, was slightly tempted to make a pointed remark about the dramatic flair the brothers Holmes obviously shared with each other but even in his condition he was not crazy enough to say anything like this. “Not gonna happen,” he rasped out. “Not gay.”

“Strangely enough, men don’t have to be gay to be attracted to my brother,” the government man said in a pensive tone.

_And what’s it to you? _But there was not much doubt about it, was there? This man wasn’t just protecting his brother who, despite his weakness for drugs, was certainly very well capable of looking after himself. His entire appearance screamed ‘deadly jealous’ and Greg didn’t envy anybody who seriously tried to get into Sherlock's pants. He would definitely not get very far… This was more than brotherly concern or even jealousy about losing Sherlock's attention (and how much was he getting anyway if Sherlock had not told him about working with him, Greg?). Obviously the older Holmes brother had the hots for the younger one, or why else had he spoken of Sherlock's 'glorious arse'! It was incest, forbidden, against the law, but even if Greg hadn’t been in the murder squad, he would have certainly not tried to do anything against it (and in all probability the incest was not even being consummated and having such feelings was not forbidden). He knew he would have been dead before even officially starting an investigation. If this man was unhappily in love with his own brother, he was certainly suffering horribly and capable of everything. And if Sherlock shared the feelings, as improbable as this seemed, well, Greg wasn’t the one who would get in the middle of them. He would be crushed…

“You will be taken back to the Met now and your gun will be returned to you, too,” Mr Holmes said, rearranging his tie. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

As Greg had no sexual interest whatsoever in Sherlock, the lesson had been a bit pointless. But he had still learned a thing or two and he would better recall his conclusions if he wanted to walk the earth for a little bit longer. Such as not even touching Sherlock with his little finger, for example.

“Oh, and call me if you think something is wrong with Sherlock.” The man handed a card, made of fine paper, over to him.

_Mycroft Holmes_. A mobile phone number. That was it. “Will that be even necessary?” Greg dared ask, his throat hurting at every syllable. “It seems you always know what he’s doing...”

That earned him a smile that was nothing more than a baring of white teeth. “Humour me.”

Somehow Greg didn’t sense any humour in this man (even though he might have laughed if Greg had been lying in front of him with a knife in his throat and begging for mercy). But considering his (and Sherlock’s) first name, his parents must have had plenty of it…

“Goodbye, Detective Inspector Lestrade.” The voice was silky and melodic again. “It was a pleasure to chat with you.”

Greg couldn’t quite say the same but he didn’t say so. He knew it wasn’t necessary. “Have a good day, sir,” he croaked, heavy with irony, which would have certainly sounded more convincing if he hadn’t spoken like a sick crow.

Mycroft Holmes nodded. “Perhaps I will.” He didn't sound as if he believed it.

*****

“This is interesting! The way the corpse is placed, look…” Sherlock grabbed for Lestrade's arm and flinched when the inspector gasped and immediately stepped backwards as if Sherlock had burnt him.

“What's the matter with you?” Sherlock asked with narrowed eyes. In fact he should have noticed a few strange facts – Lestrade had texted him to come to the crime scene instead of calling him like he had done the times before. He was wearing a scarf even though it wasn't particularly cold, and he never did that unless absolutely necessary. And damn – he had not said a single word to him since Sherlock had arrived, just nodded at him and looked pointedly at the corpse (as if Sherlock would have missed the dead man with the axe in the back otherwise!).

Sherlock sighed. “My brother talked to you.”

Lestrade flinched and a moment later he shrugged and nodded.

“I wonder what took him so long,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “He let me solve five cases for you before he, what, summoned you to the Diogenes?” Lestrade looked confused so obviously not. Probably not Whitehall, either. “Don't tell me he kidnapped you!” Lestrade shrugged once more and Sherlock sighed again. He could have said a lot more to this but he did not. Instead he turned his attention back to the corpse, and the DI, keeping an even bigger distance from him than before, was visibly grateful for it.

Sherlock didn’t need to take a look at what the scarf was hiding. In all probability the imprints of five fingers, if not ten…

When he left after telling the policeman where to look for the murderer, he didn’t go home to Montague Street. Instead he took a cab to Whitehall.

*****

“Anthea.”

“Mr Holmes.” The dark-haired assistant showed no surprise about him turning up in the centre of power in the middle of the day without having been summoned. She knew by now that this could happen on basically every given day and at every given time. He hadn’t done it for quite some time though but that was nothing new, either.

Since she didn’t say anything further, Sherlock was positive that his brother was in his office, alone, and not on the phone to solve an international crisis.

He didn’t bother knocking but forcefully opened the door to Mycroft's realm.

His brother had been staring at his computer and didn’t even flinch when Sherlock walked in. “Ah, good afternoon, little brother. To what do I owe this nowadays rare pleasure?”

“You know damn well why I’m here!”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “You had a case for the handsome DI Lestrade and jumped to certain conclusions.”

Sherlock snorted. “There weren’t many conclusions to draw. You kidnapped him! That’s a new low, even for you, Mr Control Freak.”

“I was merely making sure he doesn’t endanger your health,” Mycroft said suavely.

“As if. You wanted to make sure he keeps his hands off of me.”

Mycroft suddenly leaned forward like a predator. “So you want them on you!” he accused.

Sherlock sighed. “No. He gives me cases, that’s it. He’s so far beneath me on any intellectual level it’s not funny.”

Mycroft didn’t seem convinced. “One doesn’t need a brilliant brain to deliver physical enjoyment. Some people would even say intelligence is rather an obstacle than an advantage in that regard.”

As if he really believed that! Sherlock hammered onto his brother’s desk, making a folder fall onto the floor, shedding its contents. “I’m not interested in Lestrade’s tiny cock or his old arse. And no, he didn’t show me either but his trousers are tight enough.”

“And you checked out the goods!”

Sherlock threw his hands in the air. “That’s what I do – I scan people when I see them the first time. You do the same!”

“But if you had liked what you saw, you would have become his slut by now!” Mycroft hissed stubbornly.

“Yes! You’re right! I fuck with every man on the street whose cock is big enough to choke on it! Oh wait, no, I only do that with _you_!”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched a bit and he looked thoroughly smug. Sherlock would have liked to slap this hint of a smile from his face. What had he been thinking? Pestering the man who gave him cases!

“I won’t have it, Mycroft. You did it with Niles, who was just a friend!” He had never heard from his scared-to-death classmate again.

“He wanted to get into your pants,” Mycroft insisted.

“No he didn’t! Anyway… Leave Lestrade alone.” He felt a bit tired now. Dealing with his brother’s jealousy had never been his favourite thing to do.

“Will you come over later?” Mycroft didn't sound as he was expecting a positive answer.

“No! I'm busy!”

Mycroft sighed. “You’ve always been busy lately.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong. And his experiments would probably be done until the evening. He sighed. “Okay. Eight?”

Mycroft’s face brightened up. “Great! Shall I prepare something for dinner?”

“No. You know I never have dinner.”

“It shows on your body…”

Sherlock was slim and lean and sculpted and he didn’t see any problem in that. “You like it.”

“I do, little brother, I do. Still you must eat.”

“I’ll have a sandwich or something before I come over.”

Mycroft nodded and despite having been granted a visit from him, he looked a bit sad. “As you wish.”

Sherlock turned and stalked to the door. “See you later, brother.”

“Yes. Try to not get into trouble.”

“I shall.” And with this Sherlock was gone.

*****

Probably it was childish to arrive at Mycroft's huge house sixteen minutes after the time he had suggested himself, and he could have very well been on time.

Mycroft didn’t comment on his delay, merely greeting him with a raised eyebrow. “Finished with your chores for today?”

Sherlock slipped out of his coat and let it glide onto the floor. “Not quite, no.” He could hear the door lock itself.

His brother reacted with an indulgent smile. “You are sure you're in no need of dinner?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and blew a stray curl out of his face, not bothering to answer.

“Well then,” Mycroft said in a low voice that his minions had probably never heard from him, “you will still get something I suppose.” He opened his zip, and his cock, large and red and circumcised, popped out of the flies like a weapon.

“Still not hungry,” Sherlock mumbled but it didn’t sound convincing to his own ears. He found himself kneeling on the floor two seconds later and the wide, moist crown was pushing against his lips.

“Still you will eat now,” Mycroft ordered, his voice a peculiar mixture of steel and purr, and Sherlock let him in and started sucking, and sucking hard.

These were the rules, never spoken out but cast in stone. Sherlock might snarl and bicker when meeting his brother in his flat or any of Mycroft's offices or wherever they might bump into each other but as soon as the front door of Mycroft's house closed behind him, Sherlock was his to claim and possess. Which didn’t mean they were leaving the bickering and snarling and basic problems of their brotherly and otherwise relationship outside when they met on these secluded grounds; the force with which Mycroft was fucking his frantically sucking mouth now spoke volumes of his still simmering fury, disappointment and will to punish him for not telling him about Lestrade and for not showing up for days on end.

Sherlock was gagging and drooling and his nose was running and he felt as if he was about to choke on Mycroft's gigantic member anytime now but Mycroft waited until the exact moment when he was about to pass out before he pulled out his cock and grabbed Sherlock's arm. “Living room,” was all he said and Sherlock stumbled through the corridor, blind from tears that had no psychological reason, and a minute later he found himself kneeling on the couch, divested of his trousers and pants and of course his shoes and socks.

“Oh, you've come prepared,” Mycroft purred, and he sounded genuinely pleased.

Sherlock refrained from remarking that he had mainly opened himself up on the plug that was still seated in his arse to avoid being mutilated by Mycroft's monster of a cock combined with his rage and impatience to show him his place. It wouldn’t have been quite fair anyway as in fact Mycroft had never seriously hurt him. He had a cock to remember and he knew how to use it. Still the first few moments of being impaled on it were hard to bear even with a lot of preparation but there was no deliberation behind it. It was what it was – a huge cock going into a very tight canal.

Sherlock groaned when the plug was pulled out of him none too gently and moaned when it was replaced by Mycroft's strong, hot tongue. He had not expected to be deemed worthy of being granted such arousing attention and it was impossible to suppress his utterances of delight about the deft rimming Mycroft was performing on him. The slurping noises, his panting, the smells of both of their arousals, his own arse, their different types of body wash, hints of sweat and the peach-flavoured lube filled the air, a sinful conglomerate of sounds and odours that made Sherlock's brain spin, and the feeling of Mycroft's large, warm hands on his arse cheeks along with the ever-busy tongue let him drool, and he caught himself begging for more.

His brother pulled back and his hips were grabbed firmly while something moist and flexible was pressed against his quivering entrance. “You want it, boy? Want big brother’s big cock up your needy hole?”

Sherlock refrained from telling him that he sounded like a bad porn actor, not only because Mycroft would have probably not reacted very kindly to such mockery. After all he was hung and skilled like a very _good _porn actor and yes, damn, his hole _was_ needy and he pushed backwards instead of answering, pressing the first inch of the mushroom head into his eager opening.

“Don’t be so greedy, Sherlock, or you’ll take more than you can chew.” Mycroft sounded rather fond now; gone was the exasperation. For now.

“I’ve chewed it already, a million times actually, and I could always deal with it,” Sherlock retorted, forcing even more of Mycroft's rock-hard member into himself.

“You are certainly better at it than keeping your addictions under control,” Mycroft said in a silky tone that made Sherlock narrow his eyes at its displayed smugness.

“I’m a user, not an addict!” he hissed, and hissed again when he received a stinging slap on his bum for his cheekiness. He should know better than to chat back at his brother in such a moment by now. In any moment, actually, but that would never happen.

“That’s what you keep telling yourself.” Mycroft slid into him half-way without warning and Sherlock cried out, but not entirely out of displeasure.

Mycroft stilled for a short moment before starting to move. “Don’t pretend you loathe it. In fact you crave it.” He began to thrust deeper and Sherlock felt as if he was split in two, and it felt bloody _great _and yes, he fucking craved it.

He was rocked back and forth under Mycroft's ministrations, his hands searching for purchase at the leather couch, his arse cheeks wobbling under the hard strokes. His cock, hard and heavy, was bobbing against his stomach at every deep thrust but he had no chance to grab it to find the friction he needed.

After a few minutes of relentless fucking, Mycroft changed his position so he was bending over him, his cock pushing against Sherlock's prostate mercilessly now, and he reached around with his left hand to wrap his long fingers around Sherlock's neglected cock, grabbing and rubbing him so hard that Sherlock almost keeled over, and it only took a few more brutal strokes until he screamed and released himself over his brother’s hand and the precious couch.

A moment later Mycroft disentangled from him with a squelching noise and he was pushed into the mess and turned onto his back, his brother’s cock nudging against his lips once more. He parted them for the intruder, tasting a pleasantly unpleasant mixture of pre-come, lube and his own arse when Mycroft slid home and he greedily sucked the fat head for little more than a couple of seconds before Mycroft grunted and came, flooding his mouth with his sour-salty-sweet come, and Sherlock devoured it, his tongue whirling around the spurting crown.

Mycroft straightened up and walked backwards until his legs touched his favourite armchair, his hand wrapped around his shrinking member. “Clean yourself and the couch up,” he demanded. “You made quite a mess.”

Sherlock knew better than to argue with him. He disappeared into the downstairs bathroom and quickly washed himself before returning with a wet cloth. Mycroft’s body was sweaty but his cock was licked clean and Sherlock knew he would take a bath in a few minutes. Doing this was almost a sacred ritual for his brother after having sex. And he always did it on his own.

On still shivering legs, Sherlock got dressed and ruffled up his hair.

“You enjoyed the ride?” Mycroft asked him with an almost sultry voice.

“Quite. Guess you won’t be able to pull off another round?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Nice bluff. We both know you won’t be able to walk straight for at least two days.”

Sherlock didn't have any doubts about that. And he longed for curling up and sleeping now. He knew he could do that very well here. Mycroft would be pleased. Nonetheless, he chose to leave. To have the illusion he was a free man? 

Mycroft accompanied him to the door, his attire in place again. Before he opened up for Sherlock, he grabbed his shoulder and Sherlock shuddered when soft lips pressed onto his mouth. The kiss was short and sweet and his knees got even weaker than during the sex.

Then his brother pulled back. “Go straight home. No stopping at drug dens.”

Sherlock's jaws tightened but then he saw his brother wink, and he relaxed. “I’ll try my best. And you do your best to not pestering my...” He broke off. His what? Lestrade was not exactly a friend. And ‘colleague’ would not be quite fitting either.

“...your provider of distraction,” Mycroft helped him out. “I suppose I’ve made my point. If not, well, there are other ways to deal with defiant policemen.”

‘_I’m not your property’_, Sherlock was tempted to say, but the words stayed in his throat. Mycroft would have begged to differ and frankly, Sherlock didn't know if he wasn’t, in fact, exactly that…

“Good night, Mycroft,” he settled for and shuddered when Mycroft's hand squeezed his behind in an undeniably fond way.

“Good night, brother mine.”

Sherlock registered the slight emphasis on the last word. He slipped out of the door into the darkness, knowing whoever tried to come between them would very quickly regret having ever crossed his path.

And he would have lied if he’d said he hated his brother’s attitude all that much but he would rather bite off his tongue than telling him. Unfortunately, he knew it anyway.

*****

The next day, Lestrade asked him for help again, by text like the last time.

When Sherlock walked onto the crime scene, he walked slowly and straight but then he saw the DI’s face and knew he had failed at that. It hadn’t been easy as he was still feeling as if he had a broom stick up his arse...

Lestrade’s cheeks reddened and dammit, so did Sherlock's. “Don’t even think of saying anything,” Sherlock mumbled.

“God no,” Lestrade croaked, and then they focused on the body and Sherlock solved the case quickly, and no word was said about forbidden sex and incest and jealous brothers, and when Lestrade proceeded to pat his back in a gesture of gratitude and stopped his hand mid-air, Sherlock caught himself grinning.

Damn possessive Mycroft meddling in his life.

Damn sexy brother and his bloody fat cock.

Two days later Sherlock visited him again.


End file.
